


Duct Tape and Wishful Thinking

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [64]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-06-03 00:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6588625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fires are out, no permanent damage. No permanent physical damage, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duct Tape and Wishful Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted:...one where the TARDIS and the Doctor are awkward with each other after he bashes the console at the end of Death in Heaven. Like the TARDIS is hurt and confused and a little jumpy & doesn't go where he asks, and he's all guilty and spends a lot of time with upgrades he thinks the TARDIS might like, what i'm saying is Doctor x Tardis hurt comfort here

The Doctor’s been sitting in the dark, on the floor, for an hour. Siege mode. His hands have stopped bleeding, at least. The fires are out, no permanent damage. No permanent _physical_ damage, anyway. He puts his palms flat on the grate, listening. Waiting.

And: nothing. Well. That’s what happens, isn’t it. 

 

Siege mode, corridors dim-orange. Is he stumbling? Maybe, doesn’t matter; no one’s watching. His footsteps ring hollow, there’s no warmth in the walls. A faint, very faint tug at the place in his chest that’s been linked to this ship since he was a boy. Could be wishful thinking.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly, stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs, braced against the railing. “Since we ran away? I’ve turned 2,000 too many times, I don’t…”

He sits down on the last step, knees brought up tight, arms wrapped around them. It’s a faintly pathetic pose but then he’s a faintly pathetic man and besides, no one’s watching.

“You’re scared and you’re hurt and it’s my fault,” he says. “Apologies are meaningless, I know, but I am sorry.”

Eyes closed, he leans back, and leans back, resting gently against the ship’s shivering edges. A hand held out, metaphorically. He doesn’t expect it to be taken.

 

 

“London, hey? You like London.” He checks the monitor: _Location not found._

“National League playoffs, 1951. The Shot Heard ‘Round the World. No? No. Oh, what was that planet, with the telepathic plants, d'you remember?”

The ship sighs, wheezing quietly.  

“Or we could stay in the vortex, yeah.”

 

 

Belatedly, he realizes that part of the ship’s reluctance might have to do with an internal fault (that he’d caused). Something with the landing mechanisms, the navigation array. So he grabs a toolbox and a thermos of tea and heads down into the depths.

A hatch gently pried open. Coat off, shirtsleeves rolled up, he reaches in, trying not to flinch when the ship does. Fried conduit, he can fix that, even if the best he can manage involves tape and bits of miscellaneous salvage from his hack, crap bag of tricks.

“It’ll have to do,” he says, grimacing in sympathy, and closes the hatch.

 

 

One down, probably thousands to go. After so many miles, so long without proper repairs with the correct components, there’s something slightly wrong with every system. Down the halls, he follows the trail of things recently made worse - that he’d made worse. Clogged pipes, error loops, disconnected circuitry. The lights brightening tentatively around him.

 

 

Greasy and dusty from untangling a particularly nasty knot in the air filtration lines by Junction A9724-elephant, he suddenly realizes that it’s been a few days, and he’s exhausted. He slides down to the floor, tapping absently on the wall behind him, listening to the ship echo back.   
There’s a small paper plate across the corridor that he knows hadn’t been there a minute ago. Half a tuna-salad sandwich, an orange, the thermos of tea refilled.

For the first time in longer than he’d care to admit, he finds himself genuinely smiling.

“Thanks,” he says, mouth full. Free hand splayed flat on the floor, listening to the ship’s answering hum.


End file.
